


someone more forgetful than yourself

by Anonymous



Series: FFH Drabbles [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: Abduction, Amnesia, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Ethics, Gen, Implied Abduction, M/M, Manipulation, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Young People Being Manipulated, unethical behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 10:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There’s something disturbing,disorientingabout waking up and not knowing what his name is. Orwherehe is.





	someone more forgetful than yourself

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined this as an AU at the point where Peter confronts Beck on the bridge. Instead of saving the day, Peter takes one too many blows to the head and Beck absconds with him.
> 
> Title from "Till My Head Falls Off," by They Might Be Giants.
> 
> I always kind of assumed Peter was a high school senior/18 in FFH, and you're free to as well.

There’s something disturbing, _disorienting_ about waking up and not knowing what his name is. Or _where_ he is. 

He’s lying in a bed, and the room he’s in is dark, thick curtains drawn across the windows. 

He sits up slowly and groans, every inch of his body screaming in agonizing pain. Like he’s been dipped into boiling water. His head throbs and he presses his palms against his eyes as if to hold the pain back. 

The door opens and light spills in, around a shadow in the shape of a man. 

“You have a good nap, sweetheart?” 

The voice that lulls from the figure in the doorway is singsongy, almost sweet. 

He clears the grit out of his throat but he still feels like he’s choking on dust. “I—I—uh, yeah,” he stammers. He pauses, runs the tip of his tongue over a cut in his lip. “Where am I?”

The light snaps on, flooding his eyes. He squints, shies away from it, throwing his arm in front of his face. He hears the gentle click as the door shuts, the slow shuffling of footsteps and then the dip of the mattress as the man joins him. 

A hand lands on his knee, squeezing gently. 

“You’re safe now.” The voice is familiar, the knowledge a faint tickle at the back of his neck that raises the tiny hairs on his nape. “With me.”

“That’s not an answer,” he says, with a dry chuckle. He scrubs his hands over his face, then leaves them there, blocking out the intrusive light. 

The hand slips away from his knee. “You gave me a scare.” 

Gentle fingers pry at his hands, tug them down. A face peers in, blurry at first, before the features gain distinction. Sharpness. The eyes are a bright shade of blue—electric, shocking blue—and the smile is gentle. Kind. He wants to trust it immediately.

But something still tugs at the back of his mind. It feels like a warning. 

“What happened?” he murmurs.

“You were in an accident, Peter.”

“Peter.” The name falls from his lips effortlessly. It feels right, rolling around on his tongue. Peter lifts his eyes to the stranger in front of him. “I don’t remember. I—I—” He swallows around his tongue. His mouth is dry, tacky. “You? What’s your name? _Who_ are you?”

Those blue eyes hone in on Peter, growing even sharper, sharp enough to cut like a knife. Keen. “It’s me. Tony.” 

Tony—there's a dart of a memory there, but it's too slippery for Peter to grab hold of—leans in and swallows the protest off Peter’s lips with a kiss. 

And everything Peter was going to say flies out of his brain like the rest of his memories, leaving him an empty shell for Tony—no, no, that’s not _right_—to fill.


End file.
